


Comet

by AndersAndrew



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Anal Sex, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Guilt, Guilty Dean, Human Castiel, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sad, Translation in English, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 14:17:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6198301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndersAndrew/pseuds/AndersAndrew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was as to fly hung on the tail of a comet, to something that he never thought feeling since he had lost his grace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comet

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Comète](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4552425) by [AndersAndrew](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndersAndrew/pseuds/AndersAndrew). 



> English is (obviously) not my first language. I enthusiastically take advices to get better my translation !
> 
> This fic is inspired by this fancomic

It was good. Lethally, dangerously well. It was as to fly hung on the tail of a comet, to something that he never thought feeling since he had lost his grace.  
It was the best thing that Dean gave him. His breath in his nape of the neck, the hands on his back, his sex in his ass, always sinking more deeply, where mixe the pain and the pleasure, transforming him in a pitiful creature made by incoherent groans, by sweat, by impatient greediness...  
He crosses at top speed the sky, as a falling star, whereas Dean is anchored in him, and handle him easily as a ragdoll, and turns over him slowly on the stomach - he wants it so much still, so much more than he holds his round bottom to receive him. To make him sink.  
He did not even think that it would be also intense when he drew Dean in his trap, his bungalow removed roughcast in the persistent scent of the incense. He just thought that it would be funny, maybe. Maybe that that would change them the ideas to both. The time to think of something else, a shock or an anesthesia, as an injection in the inside of the elbow...  
And nevertheless, there he clenches teeth without being capable of screaming his orgasm, the face buried in the pillow to forget the blood which rises to his cheeks, because he likes that too much so it's not only sex. He feels Dean's lips on his temple, his ear, and he turn restlessly his head to try to pick them, but they still escape him - he pushes a moaning of frustration. But everything is too good, too much completed, and he is allowed take again, in a new rising. Still, harder, faster.  
Every touch is electrifying, every caress is delicate and measured well. The Dean's hand is firm, his movements are flexible. He expresses strength and tenderness in the embrace, and Castiel feels flying. That has absolutely nothing funny. It's devastating as a hurricane.  
He could tear sheets due to pull, to bite, to satisfy and to tame the desire which he had not realized to have accumulated since for so long. Good thing Dean takes him from behind, because he would have smashed him.  
The hunter's rough fingers in his hair make him raise the head, bend the back, and the vibration of Dean's hips striking in more and more shortened intervals his bottom, echoes directly in his nervous system, sending a wave of pleasure to his whole body. He tenses toes, enjoying once again in dirty sheets. The knees hurt him because he doesn't stop rubbing them against the mattress, nevertheless he cannot stop coming and going with the same rhythm as his lover, the accompanying him always farther.  
When the latter ejaculates finally, he quickly withdraws, but Cas is too much exhausted, too much emptied, to feel something else than a semi-ecstatic satisfaction. The drug is nothing in the face of that.  
Nothing.  
When he regains consciousness of what surrounds him, he notices that Dean got dressed again and slips his boots on, sat on the edge of the bed.  
Cas stretches the arm, brushes his back with his hand.  
Dean freezes, has a look behind. Obviously, Cas knows well what he sees - the depravation of their embrace, the hypocrisy of the lie in which they flood their sorrow-, but the green eyes which apologize to him are too much for him. He lets fall again the hand silently.  
Dean gets up. And he goes out.  
His presence still floats in the air, its heat, its smell, the replacing all the artificial paradises that Castiel had tried to build in these places. He stuck the palms of the hands on his eyelids, preventing these from letting slide his tears on his still ardent cheeks with the ghosts' of his kisses.


End file.
